When I Think of Mello
by nowherenew
Summary: Matt's perspective, AU. Matt and Mello met in elementary school, and it went from there. Matt's memories have been scribbled down in a spiral notebook. A tale of love, loss and the power of determination, Matt and Mello share the truest of loves.


**A/N: This came to me when I was crying over terribly sad fanfictions. I have all the chapters planned out—well, sort of. I have the beginning sentence and that leads me into whatever drabble I get into afterwards. I'm going to try to write a chapter and a half before I post something, just to save time.**

**THIS IS AN AU. Our two M's are in a normal school, and no offense to our babies, but they are NOT ridiculously smart. They don't go to a prestigious school or anything, but they are above the average, IQ-wise. And Mello's real name is Mello in this.**

**I have this mostly planned, or at least the individual prompts for each chapter are planned. So have fun.**

When I think of Mello, I think of my first friendship.

We were seven years old. I was avoiding the obnoxious girls who would squeal like pigs for me to go outside and play. I was sitting in the corner of the common room, playing Pokemon Blue on my gameboy advance. I thought everyone had gone outside and left me to my solitude, so I'd let my guard down. Needless to say, when a blond boy charged into the room wihout knocking, I wasn't ready to hide like I'd been prepared to do earlier.

He looked at me with bright blue eyes. After an excruciating silence as I met the questioning gaze, he spoke out, a hand on his hip. "Why aren't you outside?"

"Why aren't YOU outside?" I raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him before returning my attention to my trainer battle.

"I hurt my foot in the soccer game yesterday," came the explanation. "Now you." The blond boy nodded towards me, putting his weight on his left side. He looked like an angry teenage girl on those stupid shows like "Gossip Girl" and "Laguna Beach."

"I don't like the other kids," I mumbled. "They call me names. They think I'm a geek. Why should I hang out with them?"

"I don't know," came the reply. He walked over to me and sat next to me. He was looking over my shoulder at the game, but I didn't care. After a few minutes, he said, "You should use a fire monster against a plant monster."

I looked at him, having to lean away to meet his sapphire eyes. "They're called pokemon, not monsters. And I know that. My Pelipper is just stronger. See the numbers there?" I pointed at the levels of my pokemon and that of my opponent. "The Cascoon is level six, and Pelipper is level eighteen."

"Oh," he said. "Sorry. I was just trying to help."

"No, it's fine. Do you want to play?" I held out the game to him. He looked at it as if it were an alien, but he slowly accepted the gameboy. I scooted backwards to show him how to play. "The A button is select, and B is back. The little cross there is movement. Up, down, left and right. You press that to attack, and that to use an item from your pack."

Nodding, the blond boy played my game with determination. He won a few battles, but got frustrated when he lost. He insisted that it was the game's fault, but I consoled him quickly. "You're just starting. It makes sense that you'd lose some."

He sighed and closed the game, handing it back to me. "My name's Mello," he smiled.

"I'm Matt," I replied.

We did everything together. In a school, you can only have so many friends. We only had each other. We'd go home to sleep in our own beds, eat dinner with our own families, but really we'd be waiting to see each other the next day. All through elementary school, Mello and I were joined at the hip. We played together, cried together, laughed together and fended off the abominable cootie vessels that were girls. In the times when girls started having "crushes" on us, we were treading on thin ice if we so much as turned a corner without checking for enemies. The two of us were in it together, and if one of us fell victim to the traumatic experience of hormonal nine year old girls screeching for us to play with them, then the other would come too.

My parents got upset about my friendship with Mello sometimes; unlike Mello's family, my family was pretty traditional. They believed in "family fun time" and other forms of brutal torture. They believed that if one didn't spend every minute of their life with their family that they'd end up doing drugs or being part of a gang or something. I mean, I love my family, but they're clingy. So when I was over at Mello's house for most of the afternoon after school (and I spent the night at his house at least once a weekend), it's safe to say they got a little upset.

So during my preteen years, I was forced to "prioritize," as my mother put it. I spent far less time with Mello than was ideal: I went over to hang out at his house only two or three times during the school week, and I was only allowed to sleep over at his house every other week. Of course, Mello understood that my parents were disease-ridden freaks, but he wasn't happy about it. On several occasions, he tried to convince my mother to let me stay at his house, but she held fast.

Of course, as horrendously conventional as my family was, Mello's was anything else. His parents, to put it blandly, were different. A more appropriate description would be along the lines of "hippies." It took me a while to realize that Mello's name was Mello because his parents were basically flower children and most likely did more drugs in their teenage years than is even available anymore.

Mello is, was, and always be my best friend. He's there for me when I need him. I know he always cares about how I feel, and he makes me happy. He's my best (and only) friend, what can I say?

**How'd I do? Leave a review! **

**Ooooh, that rhymed. **


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